


Omnes Angeli qui in tenebris

by stilinskisoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Artist Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Happy Ending, Homeless Stiles, M/M, mostly Derek POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisoul/pseuds/stilinskisoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is walking down the street when he notices a boy sitting alone, working on something. Then fluff happens.</p><p>Inspired by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/alongabbay/videos/748156028553293/">this video</a> (which I suggest you watch simultaneously with reading my story, for the sake of integrity).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omnes Angeli qui in tenebris

This part of town is nearly abandoned. The transparent beams of the Sun softly cast everything in a velvet shade––the houses, the half-bare trees, the intermittently wandering people on the generously patched concrete street. The buildings were built tightly next to each other, with a narrow alley squeezed in between them sporadically. From the walls, the paint has been flaking, somewhere at the size of a palm, somewhere in an irregular circle with one-meter-long diameter. Where the plastering has crumbled down completely, the red bricks are perfectly seen, a lot like a human's skeletal muscle under the skin. The sky is a mixture of violet and scarlet above the area, which is illuminated by the sunbeams in stripes where they collide with the incorporeal clouds.

Derek has no idea what he's doing here still––while he was heading home, he was talking on the phone. One of his subordinates was in line, but he pissed Derek off; as it turned out, his men had screwed something up which is going to cost a lot to Derek. After then, the man opted to stop his car and got out to take a walk in hopes of clearing his head in the meantime. He's supposed to arrive at Los Angeles in half an hour, but he doesn't care about that either.

As time is passing by, he's getting angrier and angrier by the second. His jaw is working anxiously with a nerve constantly jumping on his temple. Both of his hands were squeezed into tight fists at some point, and he's yet to will his muscles to relax and his nerves to be smoothed out for the sake of straightening his curled fingers back into their original, natural position. With his eyes, he's permanently scanning the street, from time to time leaving them on on a figure who's running across the road, entering a building, or is simply walking a few meters away from him. He doesn't watch anyone for longer than just one or two seconds, he's only striding ahead like it was a must-do, like he was forced to do that by an unknown force.

Suddenly, though, his feet root into the ground.

He's watching a boy with disbelief––he can't be older than seventeen or eighteen––whose clothes are dirty because of mud and some other liquid that's stuck on them, his hair is stretching everywhere in haphazard spikes as though it was a dark nest on his head, under his eyes there are deep circles; the lines are so obvious as though they were etched with a knife into the boy's hollowed cheeks, and his clothes are hanging from his body. Derek is petrified by the realization that his clothes aren't big at all, and if they are still just hanging on his body like that despite this fact, that suggests a horrifying physical condition. When was the last time he ate? And how much? Derek's heart squeezes in his chest painfully at the thought.

He cocks his head to the side curiously like a cat, when he realizes that the boy is holding a white thing in his hands, there is a plastic bottle filled with water and a black cloth are there in the dust next to his hips, and on his other side there are often used temperas along with a flipped hat. Before his brain could allow, his legs have already taken him closer to the boy. The closer the gets, the clearer view he's granted of the vague lines of the boy's bones where his strung-out shirt is riding low––half of his shoulders is almost entirely exposed, the clothing apparel is barely staying at the edge of his shoulder. Derek can perfectly see the unnaturally outstanding collarbone, the sternum and some of the attached ribs. When he steps in front of the boy, he swallows once.

His sight wanders over the boy's arm––the left sleeve is short––judging by the irregular line and the fringed edge, it was torn off––, so it's not hiding his forearm which is full of smudged colourful spots around the area of his wrist. The right sleeve, he rolled up so that it doesn't disturb him in his work. Derek is watching him inquisitively as he makes the previously painted yellow wild with an amount of red. What truly amazes and surprises Derek is the fact that the boy is working solely with his bare hands. He's really using merely his fingers to put on and smear the paint––this is what Derek imagines a real artist would look like.

The boy doesn't say anything, doesn't even acknowledge Derek, just continues to paint as though he didn't have an audition. For a second, Derek wonders whether the boy is doing it on purpose or he genuinely hasn't noticed his presence, but then he chooses to swipe the thought away and steps to the boy's right instead, leans down a little and keeps watching the occurrences in that position.

The boy grabs the cloth and draws three parallel lines on the white table, of which he painted the upper half with the yellow and red before. At first, Derek believes the artist wants to make a rainbow, but he's belied about that assumption, because the boy turns the table in his lap and begins to make the white lines bleary with rhumbs of his fingertips starting from the centre of the picture. The sight of the painting now reminds Derek of the heat of the sunbeams when the air is so hot in summer that everything seems to be swimming and dancing in the distance.

When the boy turns the table back to himself, his fingers leave random orange-y spots at the bottom, but he doesn't care about it, just takes the cloth again and removes the paint in the middle in a circle. Then, using black, he starts drawing another piece of the picture––it takes Derek a handful of seconds to realize that they depict two mountains, and from behind them the Sun is dipping out. Derek isn't sure if the Sun is setting or rising, but according to the colours he's leaning more towards the first option.

At the left side of the picture, a black wave is drawn, then the boy reaches for the bottle and pours a bit of its content at the line. The paint get diluted then, and the talented fingers draw three relatively big half-circles out of it––a tiny bit of yellow and red has sneaked into the dark shade of black, which make an incredible combination together. He begins the fourth circle carelessly, in fact it ends up being a short, straight line. Then a little more red and black is added to the picture, which is concentrated at the left side of the table, and with circling motions the boy forms a rocky wall out of it. Derek is watching in awe.

The leftover paint remains on the table as flat land, which is smoothed perfectly by the boy's slender, long fingers. Then he reaches for two temperas––yellow and blue, which he mingles together using a smaller piece of cloth. Derek hasn't even caught up what colour they are going to end up, when more and more green appears on the painting––at the bottom of the mountains, at the right side of the picture where they stretch upwards, sneaking up on the side of the rocky wall and giving a frame to the picture there, on the left as well. The lighter paint, which stuck to the cloth from the upper part of the hill, the boy uses to create a path which is just one or two tones lighter than the land. Seconds later, it is brought to life by newly mixed green spots of vegetation, it framing it pleasantly. At the right bottom corner of the table, a bush is perpetuated.

With another amount of black, the boy draws a few sticks, which he later attaches to each other using the cloth––it smears the paint just enough to create a thin line between them, making it seem as though there were connected. He skips two sticks, however, leaving a free space between them, and he draws some plants sporadically at the bottom of the sticks.

He grabs the cloth again, opens it entirely, which allows all of the colourful spots dotting it to be seen and recognized. But this lasts for one transient second, because the boy has already folded it and, dipping his forefinger in it, he draws a few thin, gossamer-like lines on the picture. The cobweb lines, which depict two trees, come alive due to the brown used for the land flowing in. One of them is standing in front of the setting Sun. The artist mixes green on the inner side of his wrist again and with the little piece of cloth, he dresses the trees with sparse greenery, using small movements of his wrist. Derek is stunned by the angelic patience with which the boy is creating all this, and before the man could realize it, a house has been added at the right side of the picture, which explains the sticks which were put there priorly.

Now the boy turns the painting towards Derek, just like he was conveying the message that it's ready and he can check it––Derek is so busy adoring the painting, that he's genuinely surprised when, on the left, at the rocky wall, the cloth appears. Drawing one single line, the boy soaks the cloth in water and continues creating the illusion of trickling water like that. A bit of black gets mingled in to the elegant, pure blue, but it's so negligible that when the boy turns the table back to himself, it disappears from it. Using blue, he draws a lazy wave at the left bottom corner, then, making his fingers dripping wet with water, he begins smudging that wave away.

Soon a little lake greets Derek, and a white line of light at the surface of the water which is smeared by the talented fingers carefully, melting it in exquisitely with the blue.

The boy mixes another amount of green for himself, which he now uses to infest the left side of both the flowing water and the little lake with plants. With black, he draws a line which stretches across the water. Later, he uses the cloth to make it appear to be a bridge made of wood that seems to be old and rickety. At both of its sides, the boy draws a handful of sticks which he then connects to each other with two definite lines. Using green, he paints a tiny bush at the other end of the bridge, at the very bottom of the table.

With the small piece of cloth, he removes the paint at some random places in short, bowing lines––the sight of them reminds Derek of four swans. After this he honestly thinks the artist has finished his painting, but he's proven otherwise yet again––the boy takes black and draws a thin line starting at the left bottom corner, and the end of it, he stuffs with elongated, spiny leafs––the result reminds Derek of a palm tree. The boy repeats it on the other side, too, but he leaves the crust shorter and skips adding the leafs.

He turns the table towards Derek once more, and when he stretches and snaps his spine by turning to either sides, Derek realizes that what he's facing right now is the finished work. He realizes abruptly, with slight confusion, that his mouth has been hanging open by his fascination, so he closes it so fast his teeth clatter when they collide together. He cowers down next to the buy without considering it, still not tearing away his eyes from the astonishingly stunning piece of art.

When he's finally able to convince himself of doing that, he's faced by two huge, innocent amber irises. His mouth falls open a bit again, half due to his surprise, and half due to something else which Derek can't name. The boy is smiling.

“I'm glad you like it,” he says. His voice is much lower than what Derek was expecting, and a thousand times raspier, too. Derek's first instinct is to demand the kid drinks some water, but his throat is dry like a desert, too, and not even one sound can he force out of it. “People usually express their liking in another way, not utter silence.” The hypnotizing whiskey pair of eyes pointedly flashes toward the hat in a non-verbal innuendo. Derek shakes himself like an animal which has just woken up.

“No. . .” he starts, which urges the boy's eyebrows to knit together in confusion. Then the next second, he just nods as though he wanted to say 'I get it', and scratches the side of his nose, puzzled, which results in his pale skin being covered in the mixed shade of blue and green. Derek swallows once, then continues the sentence he started. “Some cents or dollars aren't enough for this,” he points out.

The boy snaps his eyes back at him, being genuinely surprised, they meeting Derek's pale irises which sparkle in a thousand colours; in the confusing mixture of gold, green, brown, silver-y grey and blue, like the softest of storms, the calmest of rains, the warmest of gold or the safest of woods, in which the boy can hide from the world. Something deep in him, deep in his chest moves at that, and his heart skips a beat behind his sternum and ribs. His stomach strangles up in a small knot, while butterflies are flying and chasing each other in his trachea, at his windpipe, temporarily blocking the air from his lungs. For some reason, he _wants_ that, he wants to go to those woods and hide in its deepest depths so that no one will find him ever again.

“What?” he asks, but his voice cracks, the end of the word falters, and the boy swallows once so that he won't choke. Now it's Derek's turn to smile. His previous fury has long gone by now, he's completely forgotten about his corporation, his subordinates, everything and everyone except for the boy sitting in front of him and the painting resting in his lap. The smile tugging at the corners of his lips is simultaneously trust-inducing and encouraging, his gentle touch on the boy's shoulder is meek, patient and not even the least threatening.

“Some dollars aren't enough,” he repeats his previous words, this time slower, articulating every sound crystal clear, perfectly formed with his lips and tongue. The huge amber eyes are merely blinking at him questionningly. Derek's smile widens. “Derek Hale,” he sticks his hand out. The boy looks down at the hand held towards him, but then he pointedly lifts his own, telling without words to Derek that it's still full of paint. Derek only takes one momentary look at it before, along with a shrug, he takes the hand which is smaller than his just by a hint. The boy's mouth opens in horror.

“Don't, I don't want to ruin your suit––” he rambles, confused, embarrassed, while trying his best to pull his hand away, but Derek doesn't let him, only squeezes it a touch stronger, curling his fingers tighter around it.

“I don't care about my suit,” he interrupts the other, and watches the boy's face until he looks back at him, and their eyes meet again. “What I do care about is your name.” His voice is genuine and honest, which is probably the only reason for the boy to fulfill Derek's request after a short consideration and after releasing his bottom lip from the trap of his teeth.

“Stiles,” he replies quietly, hardly understandably. It doesn't help the conditions either, that he tipped his head forward before speaking. Derek curls the fingers of his free hand, which was still resting on the boy's shoulder, at the boy's chin, forming a funnel with them, and lifts the face. He waits until Stiles mesmerizing eyes find his again.

“Stiles, come with me,” he says kindly. He doesn't want anything as much as he wants this boy, this talent, who isn't appreciated by anyone here, and who's living in such horrible circumstances––lives from hand to mouth, actually––to come with him. He can't let this boy, Stiles, to die at a way too early age, nor can he let any more of his paintings to be denied from everyone, _himself_ included. Derek can't even bear the thought. His hand squeezes Stiles'. “Please.”

At that word, something cracks in Stiles, because the look in his eyes changes, it becomes more open as though a wall Derek didn't recognize before, was ruined. The edges of his mouth are working like he couldn't decide if he wants to speak or simply smile more––in the end, he settles for remaining silent, and acquiesces to Derek's suddenly-came offer with a curt nod.

Derek helps him scoop up his stuff; actually, he's the one carrying everything, so that Stiles can bring his not-yet dry painting in two hands. The trunk of the Camaro swallows everything, then Derek opens the passenger side door for Stiles so that he can sit next to him on the seat. He doesn't care the slightest that the black leather seat is going to be dirty, since that can be taken care of and he can supply Stiles with clean clothes until he buys him some in his own size.

. o O o .

A year later, on his birthday, Stiles has his very first exhibition in his life. The highlight painting of the exhibit is the largest, which the boy denied from Derek to see before the time came. During the one year that he spent with Derek, Stiles gained back his health, and even though he stayed slender, he wasn't worryingly skinny any more––it was merely his natural build.

Stiles excitedly drags Derek, who has a cocktail in his hand, across the crowd that is admiring the pictures, making a beeline for the most important one. Both of them is wearing a tuxedo along with a bow tie, according to the regulations of _black tie_. When they are close enough, Stiles covers Derek's eyes and leads him to the framed picture like that. Derek's face is embellished by a wide smile––he's used to Stiles behaving so jittery when he's excited and happy about something that is important to him. His smile, however, freezes off his face as soon as he sees the picture, and it's replaced by something entirely different. His face is flooded by emotions and a mixture of surprise, gratitude, bliss, disbelief and shyness eases in. he doesn't deserve this.

“So? What do you think? Say something!” Stiles urges him impatiently, but Derek is unable to form words just yet.

The base of the painting is a concrete road––the same concrete road which they walked on the day they first met. Derek can remember it crystal clear, too; after Stiles had said yes, everything got a lot more vivid for him, and for some reason those moments were gauged in his memory deeply. He can see even now the ordinary grey pavement patched with dark spots dotted by tiny, pale pink petals, signing it was the middle of spring. At the middle of the picture, two shapes are painted with inky dark blue, like the night sky––Derek immediately knows those are depicting them. He also instantly knows which one is him; Stiles deliberately painted the twilight sky to make sure it highlighted Derek, and he managed all this with the two figures standing almost plastered to each other, holding each other's hands.

Derek still thinks he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve the setting Sun to be a halo above his head nor those two clouds illuminated and cast in golden by the scarlet sunbeams to appear as his wings.

His eyes slip lower, and he notices the title of the painting. It's written in Latin, in the language that he himself taught to Stiles during their year together, so that he's the only one to understand: _Omnes Angeli qui in tenebris_ *.

When he looks at Stiles, the boy is just smiling at him innocently, curiously, still waiting for the answer which he's given not in a form of words, but in a form of a kiss, as Derek protectively wraps his arms around him and holds him gently, never to lose him, ever.

 

* _Angel in the twilight_ (Latin)

**Author's Note:**

> #not dead
> 
> I'm so terribly sorry for not posting/updating for so long, but I have, like, two books to read for my upcoming exams (plus one more, which is a novel), and a shit load of flashcards to go through, so. Yeah, I guess it's safe to say I'm a tiny bit overwhelmed by school at present. Anyway, I managed to squeeze this in (and I'm almost done with the next chapter of _Don't jinx it_ , too, woohooo!!), I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know in the comments section :)


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